we would not let go
by moeten
Summary: ( human au ) After being separated by the foster care system and apart for nearly ten years, Olav Norgaard embarks on a quest to reunite with his beloved younger brother. There's just one tiny problem… he's been adopted by a Dane.


Olav Norgaard: NORWAY

Ari Norgaard (Kierkegaard): ICELAND

Preben Kierkegaard: DENMARK

All other names set according to Himaruya's defunct human names list.

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><p><strong>we would not let go: i<strong>

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><p>The case was relatively cut and dried. Kristin Norgaard had two sons, and was charged with neglect. Brief testimony was heard: Norgaard was rarely at home, the elder son was the one to bring the younger to school, to do the shopping, to handle doctor's appointments. Norgaard had not been seen at their flat for over a month. Her argument was that she had been working in Malmö; wasn't Olav old enough to mind his younger brother? The boys were half siblings; she was damned for assumed promiscuity and proven drug use. The boys were put into a group home immediately.<p>

The assignment was difficult for Olav. He was fourteen and used to being on his own, used to taking care of himself and his brother. Even though he had to admit the home was a far cry from the orphanages on television, the rules and structure rankled at him. He was told he could relax, that he didn't need to be so responsible anymore and could resume being a child, but that was difficult for him. At his age, he knew, he probably wouldn't be placed out or adopted: he was too old. No one wanted teenagers. That suited him: he couldn't imagine trying to play happy families in some new house.

It was easier on Ari, the younger son. Only seven, he was pleased to be in a place where the electricity worked all the time, there was enough to eat, and everyone was nice. He was placed in a foster family after only a few months; an older couple in Odense. While they did not foster Olav, he visited several times a week, wanting to protect his younger brother even now that he had parents — really, they were nearly old enough to be his grandparents — who doted on him. Olav remained in the group home, aged out at age eighteen, and immediately signed up for his mandatory military service.

So far as the family courts were concerned, they were an unequivocal success story.

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><p>"How can you not know where he is?" Olav asked. His tone was cold, but he was clearly angry, sitting straight up on the sofa with his coffee forgotten in his hand. He looked almost exactly the same as he had ten years ago, Anne Møller thought: small, with delicate features, a sharp nose and chin, and long, pale eyelashes. He was almost pretty, even if he'd added a bit of weight and muscle to his frame. His personality didn't seem to have changed much, either: even the cold anger was the same. Olav had been distrustful and cold as a teenager, someone who had seen no reason to believe in anything but himself, but Anne had thought he had reason, and assumed he would grow out of it. Perhaps not.<p>

"After my husband died…" Anne said slowly, looking over at a framed photo on the coffee table: Jan, hand raised to his hat, forever frozen, smiling in a happier time. It had been eight years, and her heart still tightened to think of him. "I couldn't keep Ari," she said, wresting her gaze back to Olav. His expression was still tense, and she shook her head. "I _couldn't_. I couldn't take care of him. I lost Jan so suddenly…" So she'd given him back to the group home. She remembered Ari well. She still had a photograph of him in the hall, Ari smiling up at her in a coat and scarf.

"He liked it here," Olav said, leaning forward to put his mug down on the table. "He was _happy _here." He was accusing her, and her fingers tightened around the warmth of her own cup.

"He deserved a _family_," Anne said, her voice sounding thin to her ears. "Not some sad old widow." She wondered sometimes. Should she have kept him? Would that sweet child had brought her comfort in that time? "I sent him back to the home. He was placed with a couple a few months later. A young couple." The boy would be a teenager now. Maybe they'd even adopted him.

Olav leaned back against the sofa. "You can't have lost all contact," he said, accusingly once more, but then he shook his head and his expression softened slightly. "I joined the navy," he said quietly. "For the first few months, I was so busy. The only person I had to contact was Ari." Anne remembered a few scattered phone calls, Ari sitting at the kitchen table, his legs swinging as he chatted on the phone. "He seemed alright… and I was busy…" After a while, the phone calls had stopped. Ari had asked, and they'd told him it was Olav's mandatory service, he would be home soon. Then Jan had died… "Did you try to contact me at all?" Olav asked, looking Anne in the eye. "When your husband died?"

Anne hesitated, looked at her mug, unable to answer for a moment. She heard Olav sigh, the couch cushions shift as he did. "No," she admitted, after Olav had already figured it out. "I assumed the home would… I was having such a poor time…" She looked back up at him. "I'm so sorry."

She was. But she wondered, also, why it had taken Olav so long to think to contact his brother, even if he had assumed he'd been with her the whole time. She wanted to ask, but couldn't bring herself to. Perhaps it wasn't her fault the brothers had lost touch, but she felt as though it were. If only she'd written down the name of the family! If only she'd stayed in touch! By the time the darkness had lifted, it was much too late. Ari was a teenager now, but he'd remain a small boy in her memory forever.

"I should get going," Olav said woodenly, staring at, and then abandoning his coffee entirely. There was no point in a social visit if Ari wasn't here. He stood from the sofa, and Anne rose from her chair, escorting him to the door of her house. He noticed the photo of Ari this time and stared at it for a long while. Anne wondered if he had any photos. Perhaps she could have offered this one, but she held her tongue. They shook hands at the door. "Thank you for the coffee," Olav said, although he hadn't drank his.

"I'm so sorry," said Anne once more, and watched him go through the front garden gate before shutting the door.

Once on the street, Olav shoved his hands into his pockets and began to walk towards the station. Now what was he supposed to do? As angry as he was with Møller, this was all his own fault. He'd gotten lazy, complacent. He'd let Ari go. Last time he'd been in Odense, it had been June, not November, and he and Ari had kicked a ball around the yard while Ari told him all about his friends at school. He'd been so happy here, and it had been so much nicer than the group home… than the laughable home Olav had been able to provide with what little money their mother had remembered to send him… it had seemed safe to let him have it, to leave him safely tucked away while Olav tried to find his _own _place in the world.

Served him right for being stupid. Olav boarded the next train for Copenhagen and sat in the first empty row he found, in the back of a carriage. Now what?

Olav had spent the last several years in Norway. He'd joined the navy for his military service and grown to love the ocean and sailing. When his tour had ended, he'd found a job in Bergen, working at the shipyard. The pay wasn't very good, but he'd liked the work, being around ships and the sea. Although born in Copenhagen, both of his parents were Norwegian citizens, and he had citizenship through them. He rented a small flat, bought a small boat, and learned to sail it. He'd been angry, restless and mistrustful, when he was younger: the work and the sea brought him stability and calmed him down. Olav might have stayed in Norway forever, but the company he worked with fired him in a general downsizing. He'd intended to find a job with another company, but had decided to reunite with Ari first, assuming he'd be where Olav had left him: happy with a mother and father Olav had trusted.

He decided the next step would be visiting the group home they'd once lived in. Olav didn't particularly want to. They hadn't treated him badly, but it had never been a home to him. Part of him still resented that he'd had to live there. Hadn't he been taking care of himself just fine? Olav stared out the window, at the fields and houses passing by. _Home sweet home_, he thought as the buildings began to become more dense, as they reached the outskirts of Copenhagen. But this had never felt like home to him. He missed Bergen.

It was too late, once Olav arrived back in the hostel, to go to the group home today, but he had another idea: borrowing the hostel's computer, he tried googling his brother's name. His initial searches — _Ari Norgaard, Copenhagen; Ari Norgaard, foster care _— brought up nothing; narrowing it down, he did find a brief court summary from when he and Ari had been removed from their mother. Ari wasn't listed anywhere on the group home's website, either. Some of the others staying in the hostel were beginning to give Olav dirty looks, wanting their own turns on the computer to check their Facebooks, but he ignored them. Although… just to be certain, Olav did a quick Facebook search. Nothing. He stared blankly at the computer screen. What kind of teenager didn't have any social media presence? Ari must have changed his name; been adopted and taken the name of his parents. But then where did that leave him?

He'd have to go to the group home after all. Reluctantly — and to the relief of the others in the hostel — Olav signed off of the computer and went straight to bed. The sooner he was asleep, the sooner he could keep looking, but he found it hard to drift off. What if he was wrong, and Ari hadn't been adopted? Had vanished into an abusive home while Olav had been carelessly enjoying his own life? He knew that was unlikely, but it was harder to stave off in the dark. How the hell did things end up this way? He finally fell into a restless sleep.

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><p>The first thing Ari did upon waking up was roll over to his side to look blearily at the clock. <em>11:42<em>. That wasn't too bad for a Saturday, he decided. After about ten more minutes, he rolled out of bed, ran his fingers through his hair to brush it and headed to the kitchen for breakfast. Preben was at the table in his usual spot, leaning his chair back on two legs. His laptop and a sandwich were before him, and he had his mobile phone pressed to his ear. When he spotted Ari, he raised his eyebrows at him and smiled in a way that probably meant _good morning, finally_, before saying something into the phone in German.

Ari didn't speak German, but knew roughly what this was about: Preben worked in marketing for a company that made parts for airplanes, and all Preben had been doing lately was try to set up a deal in Germany. Honestly, Ari thought it was all pretty boring. He made himself a couple of cheese sandwiches and poured himself a cup of coffee before settling down at his usual spot. Tycho Brahe, their cat, appeared out of nowhere and began to rub at Ari's legs, as always supernaturally drawn to cheese: Ari broke off a corner from his sandwich and tossed it to the floor.

After a few minutes, long enough for Ari to drain his first coffee, Preben ended the phone call with a final German _thank you_. "Guess what!" he crowed, crashing the chair back to all four legs. Ari looked at him, expecting him to continue, but Preben continued to look expectantly at him, clearly hoping that he'd ask.

Ari remained silent. It had been six years since he'd started living with Preben. Despite starting out as a foster parent, and legally being Ari's father after adoption, he wasn't even thirty yet — a few years older than his brother would be, but nowhere near enough for Ari to really think of him as "dad." Nor did Preben look or act the part: outgoing, cheerful, and friendly, he dressed fashionably and was — to Ari — embarrassingly popular. He didn't like how some of his younger teachers looked forward his visits to parent conference day, the way he'd flirt with the grocery clerks. It wasn't appropriate for a parent!

And so he refused to indulge Preben's excitement now. His face fell, and he continued without the desired prompt: "How would you like to go on a holiday in Kiel? Doesn't that sound fun?"

Ari blinked at him and took a big bite from one of his sandwiches. Kiel… Germany? If he had to guess, Preben was being called to a business conference there. He probably thought it'd be fun to invite Ari along. "Not really." Staying in a hotel for a weekend wasn't high on Ari's list of fun vacations.

Preben's face fell. "It'd be great! When was the last time we went on a trip? You could skip a couple of days of school…" Sensing an opening, Preben pressed that point. "Yeah, we can turn it into a real holiday! Maybe we could go somewhere. Kiel is really historic, I bet there's a lot to see."

"I don't want to go to Kiel," Ari decided with his mouth full.

"C'mon!" Preben leaned across the table at him, arms reaching across the wood. "Maybe we can go somewhere else. How about Hamburg?"

Ari didn't see what was so exciting about Hamburg or Kiel, and he didn't speak German, but a holiday from school was pretty tempting. He shrugged, finishing off his first sandwich.

Preben sensed more weakness, which was the problem with having a marketer for a guardian. "Then it's a deal! We'll take the train down on Friday, and we'll come back Monday, or maybe—" He paused, considering Ari. —"even Tuesday?"

Ari shrugged down at his sandwich, feeling a little bit put out. Sure, going on holiday wouldn't be bad at all, but he had the distinct feeling that he'd lost a fight somewhere and Preben was getting his way. But what could he have said? _No, I'd rather go to school, thanks? _Ari didn't mind school. He didn't have many friends, but he was left alone. He didn't mind staying at home alone either, but Preben rarely allowed that to happen: if he had to travel for work, he planned it for Fridays or Mondays, so he could take Ari along. If he absolutely had to be gone in the middle of the week, he'd call or come back as quick as he could. Once or twice, Ari knew, he'd even taken a flight instead of the cheaper train, all to be home sooner. Even now that Ari was old enough that he _could _manage alone. It was embarrassing. It was…

Luckily, Preben's phone rang, sparing Ari from needing to react too much. Preben stood up from the table, shutting his laptop with one hand, his expression switching from pleased to annoyed. "I was on the phone with a client, how was I supposed to know you were calling? What? Look, you bastard —"

That meant it was Preben's brother. Ari had long since given up trying to understand their relationship. Feeding Tycho another crumb of cheese, Ari let his mind wander to his own brother. They had always gotten along better than Preben and Berwald… but then again, no matter how much Preben and his twin argued, they stayed in contact and visits were fairly frequent. Ari and his brother had never fought, but Ari hadn't seen Olav in eight years. He didn't even know who his father was, and his mother had dropped out of his life when he was seven. Blood was strange.

Still pondering this, Ari finished his breakfast and cleared the table, including the leftovers of Preben's lunch, then filled Tycho's bowl with food. Bored, he briefly considered getting dressed and went into the living room to watch television instead. A few minutes later, Preben popped his head in to announce that uncle Berwald (he was the only one who called him that; Ari refused on principle) was coming over for dinner and he was going to the grocery store, if he had any requests now was the time to make them. Ari didn't: the only thing he was low on was liquorice to snack on, and Preben knew to buy that without being reminded.

A minute later Preben, now wearing a scarf and jacket, popped his head back in. "And get dressed! It's almost one!" Ari waited to hear the front door open and close before getting up from the sofa.

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><p>Preben stared at the fish counter, trying to decide what to make for dinner to strike the perfect balance between <em>showing off <em>and _oh, I don't care about feeding you_. Herring, he decided. Fucking Berwald. Announcing he was coming over, making it sound like it had been Preben's fault for being busy. He had a teenager, and a business deal in Germany! Who had the time to go to Lund?

He threw some liquorice in the basket with the herring and went hunting for vegetables, fretting about his brother the whole time. Their mother had died suddenly when they were younger, and after that the family had just… broken. He had nothing in common with Berwald. They barely even got along. They hadn't even spoken for years — and then Preben had adopted Ari, and Berwald had gotten married, and suddenly they had. They were growing up, maybe.

But Christ if his brother wasn't a pain in the ass.

Once the grocery shopping was done and his bike loaded up, Preben swung by the dry cleaners to pick up a couple of his suits before heading back to the house. _Their house_. His mood lifted as it always did. It was so nice to have a house instead of a flat, to have two bedrooms instead of one and a fold-out couch. It was better for Ari, too, to have a house, to be able to invite friends over if he wanted: he hadn't, not yet, but Preben tried not to let that worry him too much. There was even a tiny garden, that Preben was going to plant things in one of these days. In the spring, definitely.

He hadn't ever planned on adopting Ari — he was single; only twenty-nine — but he hadn't regretted it once. Yeah: they definitely needed a house. They could be a family together, different from him and Berwald and their father. A family who cared. Cheered by these thoughts even in the cold November afternoon, Preben biked home quickly, full of fond feelings for his house, for his adopted son, even for Roskilde and the long commute to work in the mornings.

The house was on a pretty typical residential street, and when Preben biked up, dismounting smoothly to wheel it through the gate, there was a man walking up it and looking at houses. He'd volunteered at a home for troubled youth when he was younger, and knew the look of someone casing something. Preben leaned his bike, suits, and groceries against his gate and eyed the approaching man. He was dressed in a worn wool coat, heavy — probably steel-toed — boots, and a cap. His posture was ramrod straight, and he walked like he was someone who couldn't be messed with or intimidated… but Preben had over a head on him, and probably at least a dozen kilos. Not that he was expecting a fight. But just in case. The man's attitude definitely didn't seem friendly, even if he had a pretty face.

He smiled at the stranger, hands on his hips. "Hey! Can I help you? Do you live around here?"

"Are you Kierkegaard?" he asked bluntly, looking straight into Preben's eyes.

He wondered if he should reevaluate the _not expecting a fight _thing, trying to think if there was anyone in the world who might be after him. The only thing that drifted through his mind was the German deal, but Beilschmidt wasn't like that and their business was going well. "Who's asking?" Preben asked, doing his best not to let his thoughts show.

It seemed as though the man was eyeing him now. Preben didn't let his smile falter, or his shoulders drop. After a long few seconds, the man closed his eyes in what Preben hoped meant that he'd won the encounter. "My name is Olav Norgaard," he said, and Preben's heart seemed to catch at recognition of Ari's birth name; the gears were spinning, but before he could lay them out Olav continued, his voice cold, "and _you_ have my younger brother."


End file.
